


Clouds Got In My Way

by swatkat



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Community: femslash09, F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily goes to Paris. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clouds Got In My Way

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for **llyfrgell** for the femslash09 exchange; posted [here](http://swatkat24.livejournal.com/221517.html). Title from Joni Mitchell's 'Both Sides Now'.

It begins with one of _those_ days. 

Emily wakes with a stiff neck and nearly faints in horror at the sight of her face in the bathroom mirror: pale, pinched, _ghastly_ circles underneath her eyes. She's ill at ease, unrested despite full five hours of sleep. She makes herself coffee and stares out of the window, the dull, grey sky and the river at a distance, still and a darker shade of grey. 

She finds herself reaching for a rather drab Armani outfit—dark slate grey, as befits the day—and cannot even bring herself to liven it up with some interesting accessories. 

Lately, all she seems to be having is those days. 

For breakfast, she grabs an apple. It's a tiresome thing—breakfast—but skipping, these days, makes her hungry and cranky; she makes a point never to miss it after she found herself devouring carbs at lunch, _after_ her usual zero-calorie salad from the cafeteria. It was a terrible lapse, one she hopes never to repeat again in the future. Breakfast, she supposes, is punishment enough.

The _Glamour Paris_ office is a ten-minute walk from her flat. Emily is entitled to a reasonable travel allowance, but she prefers the exercise. 

Outside, the city is coming alive in a cacophony of sounds and smells: fresh bread from the downstairs bakery, car horns, smoke and a hint of rain. A tourist might even find it enchanting, but Emily doesn't care.

After the fortieth time, even Paris begins to lose its charm. 

 

*

 

The _Glamour Paris_ office is in utter disarray when Emily gets there, Donna barking order after order from her office and everyone running about like chickens with their head cut off. On drugs. 

It's not unexpected—Fashion Week, after all, is only two days away. 

Even the normally serene Lucille appears harried when she stops by Emily's workstation and wishes her a very good morning—ha—before disappearing into Donna's den.

Emily focuses on her work. 

It's been a while since she has been this relaxed before Fashion Week. She can very well imagine New York now, commotion all over and Catherine driving everyone up the wall with an endless stream of last-minute instructions. She has at least ten e-mails marked 'URGENT' in her own inbox, most of them from Paul—who is no doubt making a mess of things in her absence—and a couple from Sophie, Catherine's personal assistant. Catherine herself never sends e-mails, of course, preferring instead to call Emily at the oddest hours.

This time, Emily might even be able to enjoy herself. Revel in the beauty of the fabric on display. It's… disconcerting. 

Lucille reappears after lunch. 'Sorry I couldn't be here earlier,' she says in her softly-accented English. 'Anita Nair?'

'I spoke to Catherine this morning,' Emily tells her. 'She's very interested in Nair's work. She wants a bigger spread.' 

'That's very good,' Lucille says. 'I will be a bit occupied today—I hope that won't be a problem.' 

'Not at all,' Emily says. She's not here to be babysat.

'It's always like this before Fashion Week,' Lucille says with a sigh. 

'I know,' Emily says. 

As the day progresses, it becomes increasingly difficult for Emily to concentrate. Her neck aches and her eyes begin to water and everything and everyone gets on her nerves. And there's still Frieda Stahl's tiresome party to look forward to in the evening—her 'little get together', as she calls it. 

For a brief, beautiful moment, Emily imagines not going, imagines switching off her phone _and_ her laptop and spending the evening in bed. 

It's but a brief moment. James Holt will be attending, and so will Stephen van der Veer, and Emily might be tired but she hasn't _lost her mind_. 

When the words on her computer screen stop making sense, Emily gives up and goes out to the balcony for fresh air. It has started raining in earnest—Emily hadn't noticed.

 

*

 

Lethargy notwithstanding, Emily puts in some more effort to dress up for the party. There's this Anna Sui dress she's been dying to wear, and of course she has _just_ the pair of shoes to go with it (Prada, black, five-inch heels). Jewellery takes a little more time, and Catherine calls in the middle of make-up, but in the end, as she surveys herself in the mirror, Emily is quite pleased. 

Which is a good thing, because she couldn't possibly turn up at Frieda Stahl's mansion looking like something the cat dragged in. 

Standards, it's about standards, Serena would say. If Serena were here. 

It would not do to descend into a sea of nostalgia, though—that way lies madness—and so Emily calls a cab and shows up just in time, that is to say, fashionably late. 

The first hour is a whirlwind of pleasantries and airkisses. Emily makes small talk and smiles like she means it. 

It does, however, get a _little_ harder after that. Her feet hurt. Her eyes sting. She can feel her energy begin to flag. She finds herself alternately eyeing the open bar and pondering upon that timeworn question: what would Miranda do? Well, Miranda would leave—she's always hated parties—and that's not very helpful, not very helpful at all. This is an _Event_. There was a time when Emily would have considered herself lucky to merit an invite; a time when she would've scheduled the event in Miranda Priestley's calendar and dutifully picked up her dry cleaning. And now Emily's here and she's one of _Them_ , she has made it. 

She's earned it, she supposes. Even if it means _this_. Occupational hazards.

Emily eyes the bar again. Alcohol might help. 

'Don't tell anyone I said this, but I only attend parties for the free booze,' says a familiar voice behind her. 

Emily turns around to face a beaming Jonathan Parker—fashion blogger-turned-high-profile-journalist, the man behind _Fashionista!_ —and says, 'I can see,' pointing to the glass in his hand.

Jonathan preens. Emily smiles. A _real_ smile, quite possibly her first real one this evening. It makes for a pleasant change. 

'You look hot,' Jonathan says. 'Bored out of your mind. Half asleep. But hot.'

'I think I'll take that as a compliment,' Emily tells him, still smiling, a little surprised at how easy it is. 

Truth be told, on most days, Emily finds Jonathan unbearably garrulous. Today, though. It's been one of those days, and Emily _is_ bored out of her mind and half asleep. Jonathan is chatty and all too eager to provide her with the latest news from New York—an excellent form of distraction. 

'Oh, and by the way? We seem to have a mutual acquaintance,' Jonathan says, in that too friendly tone that she would, on any other day, find extremely irritating. 

'Who?' Emily says, curious. 

'She was right here,' Jonathan says, looking around. 'Wait, give me a minute—'

Emily watches him manoeuvre his way through the crowd and to a group of guests in a corner. Emily recognises an English steel magnet and his socialite wife, a former supermodel, what looks like—right—Christian Thompson, and _isn't_ that—

Emily might be half asleep, but there's no mistaking that face. 

Jonathan returns with Andy Sachs in tow. Andy Sachs, traitorous turncoat oh-I-don't-like-fashion Andy Sachs, in a off-white Chanel gown that does well to hide her fat and makes her look rather elegant. Andy did always have the habit of ending up looking surprisingly decent. Well, Andrea 2.0 did, anyway. Emily does not want to contemplate the horror that was Andrea 1.0. 

'Hi, Emily,' Andy says. 

Jonathan shakes a finger at her, 'How come you never told me you knew Andy, you little minx?' 

'I... didn't know you were acquainted,' Emily says with a tight smile. 

'We worked together for a few months in _Runway_ ,' Andy says. 'It's been a while.' 

'Yes, been a while,' Emily agrees.

Andy's smile looks convincingly genuine. She always did have that talent. 

Or maybe she _is_ truly pleased to see Emily, who knows? Emily certainly can't say the same for herself. 

'I was just telling Emily about Lucy Scherbatsky's falling-out with James Holt International,' Jonathan tells Andy. 'You know the real story, right?'

_Maybe_ , Emily thinks, she will let Jonathan keep Andy entertained and quietly slip out of the party. That could work.

Emily is plotting out an exit strategy when Jonathan says, 'Well, I'll let you two catch up.' And before she can even react, he disappears with a wink and a smile and leaves her alone with Andy Sachs. 

A few moments of incredibly awkward silence—in the course of which Emily considers calling Jonathan back and imploring him not to leave her alone—and then Emily says, 'Talk about a blast from the past. Didn't expect to see _you_ here, Andy.'

'I know,' Andy says. She looks quite at ease. It's one of those things Emily has always hated about her, ever since she morphed into Andrea 2.0 and became a cool, unflappable goddess, a far cry from the clumsy girl who turned up at Runway one fine morning and told her she didn't know Miranda Priestley.

'You've gained weight,' Emily says.

'You look great,' Andy says with a winsome smile. 

'Well. Yes,' Emily says, slightly mollified. 'You've done well for yourself.'

Not that she has actually read Andy's book. 

'You haven't done so bad, either,' says Andy. And yes, Emily has. She might not be the editor of one of the world's leading fashion magazines at the age of 37, as she had once aspired to become, but she's worked her way up. She's a fashion features editor now, and her words matter, _she_ matters. 'Here for Fashion Week?' 

'Yes,' Emily says. Andy clearly hasn't lost the gift of stating the obvious. 'Although, actually, I'm here working on one of our collaborations with _Glamour Paris_. We're working on a special issue, featuring some new faces. It's going to be a revelation,' she adds.

She's not sure why she feels the need to volunteer that much information, but Andy appears duly impressed, or at least pretends to be so—Emily can't tell. 

'That sounds exciting!' Andy says. And then, evidently assuming that Emily is actually interested, says, 'I've been in Paris for the last four months. Trying to write. Getting some inspiration.'

'How lovely,' Emily says politely. 

Silence again. Emily wonders if she should yawn, just to get her point across to Andy. 

'So,' Andy says, right on cue. 'I'll be seeing you around then.' 

'Yes,' Emily says, although she would rather not—and momentarily loses the ability to breathe as Andy leans in and her presses her lips on Emily's cheek. It's a small, friendly peck, a social thing, nothing out of the ordinary, and all right, maybe Emily is a lot more tired than she thought she was. Andy's lips are very soft. 

'Good night,' Andy says. Emily hopes she doesn't look very stunned. 

Her flat, when she gets home, is quiet, and a little cold. 

 

*

 

The next morning, she joins the _Glamour_ crew at the hotel and spends the rest of the day alternately pacifying Catherine and making amends for Paul's incompetence. Sophie, Catherine's assistant, runs errands and brings Emily coffee, looking even chirpier than usual. 

'What is it?' Emily snaps after catching Sophie smile away to herself for the third time. 

'What?' Sophie says, reddening. 'N-nothing, I—'

'What's so funny?' 

'It's nothing, I— ' Sophie glances at the door, and then at Emily again. 'It's just, it's my first time here, and I've been looking forward to this trip all year, I'm, I'm just excited I guess.' She flashes a timid smile at Emily. 

'Oh,' Emily says, somewhat taken aback. 'Well. Go do your job,' she says, less stern than she was aiming for. 'Shoo.' 

It takes her a minute to regain her focus. 

 

*

 

Fashion Week finally rolls in, bringing along with it a deluge of fabrics and designers. This, at least, is as overwhelming as always, and Emily drinks it all in, immerses herself in the grand spectacle. 

The second day takes off on a particularly high note, with a stunning Dior show that leaves the audience breathless. It's followed by James Holt, who does not disappoint, and finally, Christina Toledo with her 'Morning Song' collection. Toledo's the new kid on the block, put on the map by none other than Miranda Priestley last year in London and subject to a fair bit of interest since then. And as she watches the models walk up and down the ramp, Emily knows it's only a matter of time before Toledo becomes a name to be reckoned with. Another one of Miranda's discoveries: what _would_ the fashion fraternity do without her? 

She's there in the front row right now, flanked by James Holt on one side and her daughter Caroline on the other. Emily can't see her face from where she's seated, but she can imagine her expression: the slight tilt of her head and the satisfied gleam in her eyes. 

Miranda may have stepped down from _Runway_ , but somehow that hasn't slowed her down in the least. 

After the show, Emily makes a point to speak to Christina, who appears overcome by the sudden spate of attention. 'Thank you,' she says, earnestly, and Emily can't help but smile at her. 

Her good mood vanishes when she thinks of the next task, to be replaced by good, old-fashioned anxiety. 

She takes a deep breath and walks up to Miranda, heart beating wildly in her chest. 'Hello, Miranda.' 

'Emily,' Miranda says with a dazzling smile. 'Good to see you. I hope you are well?' Emily knows that smile. It's Miranda's social 'I'm-pretending-I-give-a-damn' smile. 

'Yes, I—' She doesn't finish her sentence, because Miranda's already turned her attention to the woman beside Emily, greeting her with an identical smile. 

Anyway. It isn't as though Emily expected anything more than that. 

She's not sure what it is about Miranda—why she puts herself through this every time they meet at an event. It's been years since she left _Runway_ , but Miranda still possesses the ability to reduce her to that girl, to want to lay down the world at Miranda's feet, even though she doesn't want it, even though she already _has_ it. 

'Hi,' says a voice from behind her, and Emily jumps, 'Jesus!' 

It's none other than Andy Sachs, now looking very concerned. 'You all right?' she says, lightly touching Emily's elbow. Her fingers are warm.

'Of course,' Emily says, snatching her hand away in a rather undignified manner. 'Why shouldn't I be?' 

'Just checking,' Andy says with a guileless smile. 'I saw you speaking to Miranda just now. She's the same as ever, isn't she?' 

'Mmm-hmm,' Emily says, non-committal. 

She doesn't want to discuss Miranda, least of all with Andy Sachs. Who stole her life, went to Paris and then turned back and left, just like that, as though none of it _mattered_. 

'I don't know how she does it,' Andy persists. 'She's twice my age. I wake up every morning and feel like I'm getting old, and she's as sharp as ever.' 

Emily knows that feeling. Not that she has any intention of confiding in Andrea. 

'Why don't you ask her what her secret is?' Emily suggests. 'Maybe she'll offer you some tips.'

'Now _that_ sounds like an idea,' Andy says. Her tone is light, but there's a look in her eyes that Emily can't quite decipher. Distant, with a hint of melancholy. Pensive, that's the word. 

It suits her, Emily thinks, watching the curve of her neck and the firm line of her jaw. And maybe—it strikes her now—that's what Miranda saw too, even when it was just plain old Andrea 1.0. 

Miranda has always seen things other people miss. 

 

*

 

All of a sudden, Andy Sachs is everywhere.

Try as she might, Emily can't deny her presence. She's there at the shows, and she's there afterwards, smiling and talking to everyone who matters, almost as though she's one of them again. As though she didn't turn her back on them all those years ago.

She is here, Emily learns, to cover Fashion Week for the _Post_ —apparently she is quite the prize. And while Emily no longer fears for her position, her sudden re-entry into the world of fashion is disturbing, to say the least.

It doesn't help that Andrea really does _not_ get a _hint_. She makes it a point to talk to Emily, as though they are more than former colleagues (with a history of backstabbing and betrayal). As though they are—Emily shudders at the thought— _friends_.

After one particularly insipid show, Andy comes up to her and says, without preamble, 'You know, I never really got to ask you—did you like the clothes?'

'Clothes?' Emily stiffens. Andy's smile is innocent enough.

'From Fashion Week?' Emily remains silent, and Andy says, 'I've always wondered.'

The clothes were Andy's triumph. 

This is not to say Emily didn't appreciate the gesture, but she remembers that miserable week: her leg imprisoned in that horrid cast and the sheer agony over Paris. Serena by her bedside, saying, 'Why are you torturing yourself?', a little exasperated.

'They were nice enough,' Emily tells Andy now. 'Hideously oversized, of course.'

'Of course,' Andy says, a small smile playing on her lips that might be amusement. 

And it's by pure accident that their elbows brush, just so, and Emily suddenly can't breathe.

This is getting to be tiresome. 

'They had to be fitted in. Ruined some of the cuts,' Emily says, aware that she might be babbling. 'And some of them were extremely drab, I have no idea what you were thinking, Andy.'

Andy merely looks even more amused, and Emily is relieved when it's time for the next show. 

 

*

 

That night, she dreams of Serena. Her long, long legs and her clever fingers, playing Emily like a harp. 

She wakes up in the middle of the night, flushed and shaking and wanting nothing more than to kiss the inside of Serena's wrist, just where the tattoo is. 

Emily stays up for the rest of the night. She sits by the window and watches the sky grow pale and lights go out, one by one.

 

*

 

The next day, once again, is insanely busy. It's the final day of Fashion Week, featuring some of the most anticipated shows.

Emily spies Andy on the second row at the Anna Sui show, elegant in a printed floral dress and laughing at something said by her companion (Christian Thompson again). When Andrea spots Emily, she greets her with a small, cheery wave. Emily nods in response, ignoring the queer little lurch in her stomach.

Once upon a time, elegance was the last quality Emily—or anyone—would attribute to Andrea Sachs. One might say it suits her.

 

*

 

Her dress that evening is a vintage piece, a 1950s black silk taffeta dress by De Pinna. It's short and simple, and incredibly stylish, with gloriously wide, scooped neckline. 

'I _love_ that dress,' is the first thing Catherine says when Emily arrives for dinner. 

Soon she is flooded with similar compliments, and well, Emily isn't surprised. It may have cost her a fortune, but it's worth every penny.

She is just beginning to enjoy herself when there's a slight commotion at the entrance: Emily knows who it is even before she sees her, feeling again that familiar unsteady rhythm of her heart. 

It takes her a moment to collect herself and approach Miranda, ethereal in her white evening dress. 'Hello, Miranda,' Emily says, a little breathless. 

She is prepared for the murmured greeting, the sweet, vacuous smile Emily is all too familiar with. She is not, however, prepared for everything that follows, right from when Miranda turns to Caroline and says, 'Caroline, this is Emily Charleton, from _Glamour_. She was with _Runway_ for a few years.' 

And Caroline says, 'I remember,' flashing a candid smile. 'I have to say, I love your dress.'

'I—' Emily tries to say, and hastily snaps her mouth shut when Miranda says, looking intently at her dress, 'De Pinna, 1950s. Shut down in 1967 after the new owners decided it was no longer profitable. You'll find some pieces turning up every now and then.' There is a soft smile on her face. Emily has never seen anything like it. 'Quite lovely,' Miranda says. She sounds very satisfied. 

The moment passes, and Miranda turns to the next person. Emily stops the first passing waiter and grabs a glass of wine. 

Something very important happened right now. She's not sure what it is, except that it's important.

The room feels very hot. Emily takes her glass and walks out to the balcony. 

She's not sure how long she stands there, staring into the dark. She's startled out of her reverie when someone stumbles into the balcony and turns around to face Andy Sachs, who says, 'Oh! Hi!', appearing as astonished as Emily feels. 'I didn't know anyone was here. I, I needed some air.' 

Emily says nothing, and Andy continues, 'I just spoke to Miranda. After, what, five years? Or maybe more, I don't know. Did you know Caroline Priestley read my book? And liked it? I just—'

'Andy, breathe!' Emily interrupts, noting the very definite edge of hysteria in her voice. 

'Sorry,' Andy says when she's capable of speech again, now sounding somewhat sheepish. 'I was just going to have a quiet meltdown here by myself. I didn't mean to disturb you.' 

'I'm sure you didn't,' Emily says, not caring to mask her sarcasm. 

'I don't know how she does it,' Andy says, shaking her head. 

Emily knows that feeling. 

They stay quiet for a while after that. Emily sips on her wine.

'How long will you be in Paris?' Andy finally says.

'Another month. Maybe two,' Emily shrugs. 

'I've been getting a little homesick myself,' Andrea says. 

'Yes,' Emily says, surprised at her own admission. She’s homesick, and maybe a little lonely. 

So much for Paris.

'You know, it was really great, running into you. Maybe, afterwards—' Andy pauses, a little hesitant. 'Maybe,' she says, 'we could meet. You know, if you have time. Have coffee.'

Emily ignores the sudden tightening in her stomach. It's an innocent proposition, nothing more. She's fairly certain she is merely imagining Andrea's blush. 'I suppose so,' she says. 'If I can fit it into my schedule.' 

Andy fishes out a card from her handbag. Their fingers brush, oh-so-lightly. 

 

*

 

It's back to work after that: the entire office appears to be suffering from a case of Fashion Week-induced hangover, and Emily finds it considerably difficult to get back to the task at hand. 

Two days later, she gives in and calls Andrea.

 

*

They meet for coffee the next evening after work, in a small café not very far from Emily's flat. 

'I love this place,' Andy announces. The two waitresses smile at her. 

'It's nice,' Emily agrees, even though she was not aware of its existence before this evening. It’s... nice. 

Over the years, Emily has mastered the art of small talk, but somehow, she finds herself awkward and tongue-tied, merely nodding along as Andrea expounds upon the wonders of Paris and her many adventures. 

'Sometimes, when I can't write, I just go out and walk. Explore the place,' Andy tells her. 'There's something new to be discovered in every corner.'

'Can't say I've ever done that,' Emily says. And because she feels an odd urge to defend herself, she says, 'I'm usually very busy, as you know. Never had the time.' 

She has never particularly cared, either. 

'I guess I'll have to drag you along one of these days,' Andy says, her eyes shining. 'You'll love it.'

Emily can't say she will, but Andrea's enthusiasm is catching.

 

* 

 

The next time, it's Andy who calls, a casual 'Hi, I will be in the neighbourhood, wanna have coffee?' 

And Emily is _insanely_ busy, but she says 'yes' nonetheless. 

Coffee becomes lunch. Andy turns up in jeans; Emily takes an hour off and partakes in a stilted exchange on the weather. 

Drinks. Andy talks about writer's block and her little pilgrimages to Gertrude Stein's salon and the flat shared by Ernest Hemingway and Pauline Pfeiffer. 

That night, Emily orders her books—the essays as well as the award-winning one about thieves and time-travel. They are decent books: smart, well-written. The time-travelling thieves are funny, and also a bit mad, and Emily is—she must admit—charmed in spite of herself.

She says so over coffee. Andy flushes and beams, and shyly divulges her plans for the sequel featuring Elizabeth I and, possibly, William Shakespeare. 

There is a rhythm to their conversation now, a flow she is certain did not exist until a few days ago. Easy. Comfortable, even.

Emily tries not to think about what it might mean. It is easy, so easy to let her fancy run wild and come up with alluring and impossible fantasies when in reality she is just lonely, and maybe a little sexually frustrated.

They are not friends and they are not dating—just old acquaintances, clinging to a familiar face in an alien city. Even if this is her fortieth time in Paris. Or possibly her forty-second—Emily has stopped keeping count. 

Maybe she is more than a _little_ sexually frustrated. It has been known to happen.

'It probably only makes sense inside my head,' Andy says with a small, nervous chuckle. 

'It might work,' Emily shrugs, nonchalant. 

It's a pleasant day and they're on a table outside, underneath a precious pink umbrella. There are shadows on Andy's face. Emily tries not to stare, tries not to dwell upon how pathetic this is.

 

*

 

Two days later, they're having dinner again: a pretty, old-fashioned brasserie tucked away in a narrow lane, ‘discovered’ by Andy while on one of her many explorations. 

The reservation was entirely Andrea's doing, and now, as she sits below a large, intricately-designed glass dome and takes in the dark polished wood and the shining brass panels, Emily tries—once again— _not_ to get ahead of herself. 

She's not sure when she became the Queen of Wishful Thinking. 

And besides, blurting 'I want to kiss you' while they are having dinner would be incredibly gauche.

The dishes are passable and fairly low in calorie, but Emily spends more time glancing unobtrusively at Andy and the obvious pleasure she takes in her food. She's not sure when it stopped being nauseating and became somewhat endearing instead.

It's excruciating. 

Nonetheless, Emily heroically manages to go through dinner without embarrassing herself. They walk to the crossroads, where Emily stands on the footpath and proceeds to be ignored by five consecutive taxi drivers. 

After the sixth taxi cruises past without so much as glancing at her, Emily lets go of propriety and shouts 'prick' in the general direction of the taxi. Its tail-lamp flickers mockingly at a distance, before disappearing altogether around the bend. 

'Stupid _prick_ ,' she says again, not bothering to lower her voice. A passer-by sniggers. 'Oh, shut it!', she tells him, furious. 

Emily turns to Andy, still waiting patiently by the lamp post. 'You should go home,' Emily says. 'It's getting late.'

'No, it's fine,' Andy says. 'It's just a short walk from this place.' 

There's an odd look in her eyes that Emily can't quite decipher in the lamp light: something like shock, perhaps.

Which is just great, because now she _has_ managed to make of fool of herself in front of Andy. Another one of _those_ evenings, and Emily's really sick of them at this point.

The seventh taxi.

'Emily?' Andy is still looking at her in that unsettling way.

'What is it?' Emily says after a moment's silence. 

'It's—' Andy smiles and shakes her head, 'It's nothing. I've just realised something.' 

'Which would be?' Emily says, sharper than she intended. 

Andy seems… amused. And then she reaches out and takes Emily's hand, rendering her temporarily incapable of speech. 

It would not do to appear pathetically eager, and so Emily says nothing, does nothing until Andy leans closer, her breath hot on Emily's face. 

They are, Emily supposes, making quite a scene on the footpath. Andrea's grasp on propriety has always been pitifully slim. For once, Emily can't bring herself to disapprove. 

 

*

 

Afterwards, Andy doesn't ask her to leave. It's not exactly the same as an open invitation to stay, but Emily won’t complain. She lies awake and thinks of _Runway_ and Andrea 1.0. 

‘What are you thinking?’ Andy says after a while. 

'I can't believe Miranda brought _you_ to Paris,' Emily blurts, and immediately wishes she could bite off her tongue. 

'Does it matter?' Andy says quietly.

_Of course it does_ , Emily wants to say, and thinks of the time when she finally did come to Paris for Fashion Week: Miranda’s stony silences and the lingering shadow of Andy’s grand flight, even a year after. 

Paris was nothing like what she imagined.

Emily thinks of the stacks of (mostly) oversized clothes. 

'No,' she says. 'No.' 

 

*

_End_


End file.
